


For Small Creatures Such As We

by splash_the_cat



Category: Jupiter Ascending (2015)
Genre: Biting, F/M, Fairy Tale Elements, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Introspection, Knotting, Oral Sex, Scent Kink, Sleepy Sex, Wake-Up Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-12
Updated: 2016-04-12
Packaged: 2018-06-01 21:47:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6537475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/splash_the_cat/pseuds/splash_the_cat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Caine's starting to believe in fairy tales.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Small Creatures Such As We

**Author's Note:**

> Me: "Ugh. This smut fic is so hard to write."  
> Writer Brain: "No problem. Let's just start a whole new one!"  
> Me: ...  
> Me: "NOT HELPING."

_“She had studied the universe all her life, but had overlooked its clearest message: For small creatures such as we the vastness is bearable only through love.” - Carl Sagan, Contact_

Caine wakes, hard and aching, to the lazy buzz of bees and the scent of Jupiter's arousal. The faint light of late summer dawn creeps across the cornfields that surround Stinger's house, still far enough away to barely be called morning, though the heat of the coming day sticks to his skin already. Next to him Jupiter is sprawled on her back, also bare, sheet tangled around her legs and hips. Her breasts quiver a little as she breathes, fast and short, in time with the tripping beat of her heart. She cups one breast, thumb rubbing over her nipple. Her other arm is flung up above her head, fingers grasping at nothing. 

She's dreaming.

Caine tugs the sheet away from her enough to see, even in the low light, that she's wet, and the sight of that, and the smell of her is almost enough to bring him to the brink. The last time she'd had a dream like this and he'd woken to the sound of small moans and panting breaths, he'd lain next to her and fucked into his hand until his groan when he came woke her. "Caine, please," she'd begged, and he'd brought her off with lazy laps of his tongue around and between her fingers as she'd touched herself.

"You can wake me up next time," she'd said after, as he licked the inside of her thighs and her fingers clean. 

He'd crawled up over her, one brow raised. "Right. You get grumpy when I wake you up too early."

"I bet not if you use your tongue," she'd replied with a grin, and he'd kissed her and kissed her until they wound back up and around each other all over again.

Caine gently eases the sheet from her and turns around to wriggle his way down and under one of her legs, hooking it over his waist as he curls into her. Her hips twitch up as he lays one hand over her mound, drags his fingers down through the sleek warmth of her sex, and he wonders what she's dreaming, who is embracing her, tasting her, pleasing her in that world inside her head. "When I remember, it's you, usually," she'd told him once. "But occasionally Ryan Reynolds sneaks in there."

It won't take long, Caine thinks, and he so desperately wants to taste her like this, sweet and languid. He dips his head and drags his tongue up the path of his fingers, once, twice, broad slow strokes that send her heart racing. He discards precision for tasting as much of her as he can as her hips begin to rock and her breathing gasps and flutters.

So intent on burying his tongue as deep inside her as possible, he misses the exact moment she wakes, but he knows she is aware as she crests that cliff and he hears her gasp as she falls over it, the muscles in her thighs tightening under his fingers, an undulating shudder rippling down her spine.

Caine mouths his way up her body as she tries to catch her breath: soft kisses and soft bites against her hip, the smooth plane of her belly, the underside and swell of a breast, the round curve of her shoulder. He bites gently at her chin as he slides into her, and breathes in her long, satisfied sigh. Content just to settle against her, feel her skin against every inch of his as he's buried inside her, Caine doesn't move until she pinches his side. He grins and fucks her slowly, trading sloppy, eager kisses as she first cards her fingers through his hair and later grips it tight as she rocks and rolls her hips under his with increasing desperation.

"Hang on," he says; the sun has finally breached the horizon and makes patterns on the far wall and on Jupiter's skin when he rolls them so she can grind down on him, finish on him. Caine likes it best like this, when she comes above him, where he can watch her pleasure build in the twist of her hips, the arch of her back, the long, elegant line of her neck. She is, he thinks, the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

It's early enough that they can take their time, so he surrenders to her completely, sinking into a haze of warmth and pleasure, letting her take from him what she wishes. She'll still ask; she always asks when she wants to come on his knot, no matter how many times he tells her she doesn't need to. "I know," she's said every time he reminds her of that, "but it feels like when you're going to be literally stuck with someone, it's basic courtesy to ask them first."

It thrills him, that she thinks of him, of his comfort, of his needs - not that there haven't been times they've both been too enthusiastic for such consideration and ended up locked together at an inopportune moment, once with Jupiter, tears streaming down her face in laughter, yelling to Stinger through the door, "Um, I'm a little tied up right now, be there soon!"

Caine cherishes that laughter, her unending delight in him, in them, more than anything he has ever dared to claim as his own. That and the way, like now, she tilts her head to expose her throat to his teeth, and the sound she makes when he pushes up and accepts that invitation. The thrum of her pulse against his tongue, the beat of her very life that she trusts to him without any hesitation, is a gift with which he still does not entirely understand why he was blessed.

Jupiter tells him, sometimes, with a wry smile, of Earth stories about love that bursts into one's life, unforeseen and immediate, tales of lost children and lost queens, of stalwart knights and cursed men changed by true love's kiss. Intrigued, he'd gone on to find the stories themselves. His fascination grew, as much due to the stories themselves as to the novel freedom to pursue such frivolity, and he'd devoured them, loading Earth languages into his implant to trace them back into their language of origin, to spend hours tracing their histories, navigating their cultural contexts, savoring their intricacies and their parallels to his miracle that was finding Jupiter.

He wonders if, someday, someone will write their story. 

Caine splays a hand between her breasts to feel the beat of her heart and she clutches at him, one hand gripped at the back of his neck, the other tight in his hair as she rocks and twist her hips. He whispers, "Close?" into the hollow of her throat.

"Yeah," she says, breathless, saturating the very air around them with the scent of her anticipation. "You?"

He can't help but laugh. He's been ready since he woke just at the smell of her. "At your command, your Majesty."

"Fuck," she says, and, "Oh God. That's... Caine... Caine, now!" Jupiter breaks apart above him, and Caine follows, will always follow, in this and in anything else she does.

As she pants in his ear and his own shudders still, Caine tips back against the pillows, secure inside her, secure with her. "Good morning," she murmurs against his mouth before claiming it in a lazy, sweet kiss. Sometimes he thinks he will wake from this, and it will all have been a dream, that he is still the feral beast who lost everything, still alone and empty. And then Jupiter strokes his hair or slips her hand into his, or says his name with that glint of affection and admiration and love, and smells of heat and joy and desire, and he knows he has been transformed, from beast to man, from lost soul to someone loved, someone who can again love in return. 

And he thinks, that maybe, he will write his own story.


End file.
